The Copper Assassin

by Madolyn Rogers

  As he gazed at the crab, a woman strolled out the door. She was about his height, and likely in her thirties, with long dark braids and an attractive oval face. She was dressed in the shirt, tunic and trousers that were the common garb of Wyverna, and she carried a flask in one hand. As she passed him she nodded civilly, and then stopped, assessing him. “You look like you have a question. What do you wish to ask?”

  Gorgo felt a twitch between his shoulder blades. He was not used to a stranger being able to read his face. Swallowing his annoyance, he said, “I’m looking for a Hologrim sorcerer. I want someone of repute who has no conflicting loyalties.”

  “I am of the Hologrim family, and a sorceress. Perhaps you are looking for me.”

  “It’s possible. I need a magical service.”

  “That’s very common here.” She extended her fist and he brushed it with his own. “Shaoti.”

  “Gorgo.”

  “Would you like some tea, Gorgo? They serve a very fine bhinroot tea here at the Crab.”

  “I hate to take you from your business.”

  “Magic is my business. I only came out to look at the moon. This is a good time of night for weather-casting—which is also my business.” Her voice was low and pleasant, with a husky edge.

  Gorgo accompanied her into the main room. The tables and chairs were of fine woods, and tapestries hung on the walls. A handful of customers ate, drank, or conversed quietly. Over by the fire a few members of the Mad Dream family lounged, smoking dreamweed. One of them sat slumped, his head of curling red-brown hair atilt against the brick wall, eyes open but unseeing. The bluish smoke wreathed his head. Armida said those Mad Dream who were gifted with powers dreamed better without the drug; they took the weed to free themselves from their visions.

  Shaoti picked a table by the wall under a bright-burning lamp and ordered tea for them both. Under the light he could see that her crown of heavy braids was a rich auburn color. They fell to her waist, dozens of braids in intricate plaiting. As she sat down she tucked the glass flask into an inner pocket. It was half-empty, and by the faint smoky smell on her breath, Gorgo judged it contained rum. Something about her pleasantly relaxed air made him guess she was already half drunk.

  “And now for your question, Gorgo.”

  “A sorcerer can endow someone with protection against magical spying. I have bought this service from an Ilkour sorceress for a gryffon per day.”

  Shaoti glanced at him over her teacup. “She’s robbing you blind.”

  “It goes up after the first week.”

  “She will never go hungry,” Shaoti murmured dryly.

  “How much do you charge for the service?”

  “I don’t offer it myself. You never know why someone needs such a service and what they wish to hide. As I work for the Fence, there is a conflict of interest. However, there are many in Stone Hearth who do offer this service, and I can direct you to any of them.”

  Gorgo brushed back his dark hair and swallowed some tea, the prickles between his shoulder blades returning. “Everyone in Stone Hearth works for the Fence.”

  “In one sense or another, true. But not many of them work in the Fence as I do.” She seemed to sense his discomfiture, although he didn’t think he’d given it away. “The protection is not illegal. Only what you do while under such protection is in question. Most sorcerers offer it. I believe the usual fee is a shark a day.”

  Water had overcharged him by a factor of ten. “Can the sorceress withdraw this protection at any time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can she herself spy on the person after she’s so protected them?”

  Shaoti considered for a moment. “It depends on if she’s left a hole in the cloak. Or a tag she can hook to—that’s harder to detect.” She sipped her tea and added, “I can see why you’re looking for a sorcerer of repute. You appear to have serious doubts about this one you’ve hired.”

  “I don’t know where her loyalties lie.”

  “Considering what you’re paying her, I would guess her loyalties lie with you. Unless your enemies can outbid you.” She watched him for a moment, then raised her brows slightly. “They can. Unfortunate.”

  Gorgo cursed internally. How had she read him again? He took pride in his ability to mask his reactions; it was one of his advantages at the gaming tables. Shaoti couldn’t be invading his mind; Hologrim sorcerers had no such power. She must watch for clues even more carefully than Gorgo did. Despite the rum and the slight blur in her voice, he was beginning to wonder if she were drunk at all. It disturbed him even more that he couldn’t read a thing from her. Unlike Water, this calm sorceress gave away nothing. Armida, if she were there, might have called it the difference between the Fence and the underworld: the Fence so much more professional, more ruthless and disciplined. He might be better off with Water.

  Gorgo sipped tea to buy time, thinking. Was this encounter with the Fence a danger or an opportunity? This might be his chance to deliver a warning about the assassination attempt. Yet a warning might accomplish little—Shaoti might not even believe his wild tale. And if she did, would she pass it along? Not every Fence member was loyal to the Warlord. Gorgo needed to learn more about her. He chose distraction as his tactic, holding out his half-empty teacup. “The tea is a little bland. Perhaps you could flavor it for me.”

  Her lips curved. She pulled out her flask and poured a little of the brownish-gold liquid into his cup. “This is genuine Wyverna rum, you should know, no import. We make it from the canes in the fall. Sun’s Bride we call it. The recipe was developed and tested here in Stone Hearth.”

  “Under your supervision?” Gorgo sipped the drink; the rum was rich, smoky, and complex. At least he could read something from her now; Shaoti’s satisfaction in the drink was obvious.

  “Yes, I was one of the judges, with pleasure. Wyverna borrows so much culture that sometimes we must strive to develop our native contributions.”

  “But why Sun’s Bride? A bride itself is a borrowed concept, yes?”

  “Do you even know what it is?”

  How ignorant did she think him? “A practice among the landed nations of swearing a woman to the bed of one man for life.”

  “Close enough. A bride is a woman about to take such vows. The custom has meanings beyond the merely sexual, influencing economic allocations, child-rearing arrangements, and other social practices.” Shaoti shrugged. “The name is something of a joke, as it happens.”

  Gorgo did not waste time trying to figure out the joke. He abandoned subtlety. “What do you do in the Fence?” He kept his voice casual.

  “I am Director of Agriculture.”

  So she was in charge of the farming districts in the north of the city. That explained the weather-casting, and perhaps the rum-making. Gorgo reflected on what he knew of the five Fence lords who ruled Wyverna under the Warlord. There was only one who might supervise agriculture. “Then you work for the Implementer?”

  “I do.”

  Devourer curse it. His name was Mayden, and he was the most feared of the Fence lords. He had been one of the earliest supporters of the Warlord in the ice islands, and yet rumors said he was ambitious and would happily take the Warlord’s place. Other stories spoke of his depravities and sexual peculiarities. No one crossed the Implementer, or trusted him. If Shaoti was loyal to Mayden, he didn’t dare rely on her to carry a warning to the Warlord.

  “Is it true what they say about him?” Gorgo asked lightly.

  “They say a great many things about him. Which one?”

  “That he seduces his own children?” Gorgo deliberately picked the worst of the rumors.

  “That is not my place to speak of.” Yahsta’s horns, he still couldn’t read her. Gorgo saw no sign that she was indignant on Mayden’s behalf, or repulsed by his vices, or embarrassed to be associated with such a man. No clue, in other words, whether she might be loyal to Mayden or the Warlord. But an instant later she changed the topic, and Gorgo knew he had at least
made her uncomfortable.

  “But you wished to know if you could trust the sorceress you hired. You haven’t asked me to assess the quality of your purchased cloak, but I will tell you anyway. You are fully covered against magical detection. I’ve been probing since we sat down, and if I didn’t see you with my own eyes, I wouldn’t know you were here. There are no holes, and as far as I can tell, no tags either.”

  Her words startled Gorgo. He knew vaguely that some of the more powerful sorcerers could extend their magic sense out around themselves for several feet, using it like a sixth sense. There were stories of sorcerers finding spies hiding in closets, or being aware of assassins slipping up behind them. But Gorgo had not realized that Water’s shield would hide him from this kind of detection as well. He wondered if he appeared simply as a blind spot to Shaoti’s magical eyes. He would have to keep in mind that any sorcerer who saw him would likewise recognize that he was cloaked, invisible to their magic sense. “There’s no conflict of interest in telling me this?”

  “None at all. I didn’t put the protection on you, so I wouldn’t be called on to remove it.”

  Gorgo’s belly knotted. This possibility had not even occurred to him. He swallowed the rest of his tea to moisten his throat. “Does that happen often, that a sorcerer is asked to remove such protection? Do the police demand it?”

  “It’s uncommon. But if the police wished to find a wanted man with magic, and if they knew who had put the protection on, they might demand the sorcerer remove it. If the sorcerer worked for the Fence he might even agree. Most wouldn’t.”

  “Would the sorcerer be arrested for refusing?”

  “Possibly. The Head of Police has the authority.”

  “The ability to arrest a sorcerer, I suppose, is another matter.”

  “Even the ability. A city of sorcerers requires a police who know something of magic.” Shaoti smiled. “Lucky for you I’m not a member of the police, or I’d begin to wonder if you’d done something illegal.”

  Gorgo managed a laugh. “Not a thing.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “But I must be getting back. Thank you for the tea. How much do I owe you for your services?” He had no more funds by now than a handful of sharks.

  “I don’t charge for conversation. Would you still like the name of a reputable sorcerer, one who puts on protection for less than a gryffon per day? I assure you,” Shaoti added with a slight smile, “he doesn’t work in the Fence.”

  “By all means, give me the name.” Not that Gorgo would use it now, not when a member of the Fence would know who was protecting him, not when the police could have it removed at any time. Though he had done nothing illegal, an enemy such as Na•ar could easily whisper slanders to the police and put him under suspicion. Or he might be under suspicion already, if his clumsy questioning had roused Shaoti’s mistrust. And he did not trust Shaoti, could not afford to trust her. He’d stick with Water, even at a gryffon per day. He doubted the police would find her easy to track down or compel. But he accepted the name Shaoti proffered with thanks, and then departed. He itched to be gone from Stone Hearth as quickly as possible.

  Gorgo strode through the streets, taking time only to double back on his path and watch for pursuers. Nothing. He blew out his breath, the tension creeping out of his shoulders. It was unlikely, after all, that Shaoti would have had him followed. With luck, she would shrug off their conversation as no more than a curiosity.

  He moved on, calmer. At least now he knew Water had been honest with him. He was protected. That still left him with the problem of Morbid, and Cockatrice. Should he try to take word of the plot to the Fence? He saw no good way to do that. He certainly didn’t trust the police. Who knew if they might have been infiltrated by Morbid’s agents, and even if not, they were unlikely to believe him. He could not take word directly to the Warlord. There was no getting into the Fence District itself, not without the right insignia; the very name of the district came from the fact that it was warded off from the rest of the city, impenetrable.

  Was there anyone else he could reach? Some of the Fence lords could be found out in the city at times. Gorgo considered each of the five in turn, and realized there was not one he dared trust. Certainly not Mayden, nor the Hologrim sorceress Wormlight, a leading critic and rival of the Warlord. Not the monk M’Chay, a man of unknown powers and motives. Not Ciano, a noble of the Slythe family—like all Slythes, she was dangerous, formidable, and not quite human. And not—who was the fifth Fence lord? Ah yes, Jonlan, of the Mad Dream family. Gorgo knew little of him, but had no reason to trust him either.

  Even if he could get a message through, what could the Fence do against an artifact like the Assassin of the Kahlrites? They would need knowledge of the creature’s weaknesses, some way to stop it. Gorgo turned it over in his mind. Out here in the city, with the information he had, maybe he could find out more. Na•ar’s conversation with Radice had given him clues to follow. If he could find some key to the beast, maybe he could figure out how to stop the thing before it struck.

  The idea took hold of him, terrifying yet thrilling. He could do this. Water’s cloak protected him, and he was good at finding things out. He could be careful, keep his risks low, learn something that could be useful to the Warlord. Later he could find some way to deliver the information to the right person, once he knew enough. This mission had come to him—the challenge he had been seeking.

  He stopped in the shadow of a building, staring up at the indifferent moon. The truth was that there was no one he trusted but himself. He was alone in this. He felt safer that way.

  Three days. Three days until Morbid had the assassin.

  3: The Library of the Past

  Gorgo got back to the River District in the early hours of the morning, and seized a few hours’ sleep in one of the anonymous rooms of Passionflower Court, spending some of his last sharks. He woke with the dawn, too keyed up to sleep longer, and gulped a quick breakfast before heading to the Library of the Past. It was the clear starting point in his half-formed plans; Gorgo wanted information, and it was the best library in the city.

  More than that, the library was run by Tiolt Kharvay. Tiolt had always been more of a scholar than a leader, Armida had told him. In the ice islands, he had ceded power graciously to the Warlord. It was his cousin Morbid who had burned at the transfer of power. Perhaps Gorgo could find out more about Morbid here, too.

  The library, a huge building of grey-green stone with cupolas capping its winding wings, loomed along the river bank among sweeping willow trees that had been planted at the founding of Wyverna. An avenue of poplars led up to the library’s double doors, which stood open. At this hour, shadows were still long, and the air cool and piercing.

  Gorgo ascended the shallow stone steps, passing from the bright day into a dark room with a high ceiling. Tea water bubbled on a stove. Numerous individuals sat in well-stuffed chairs at fine wood tables, drinking and talking. Apparently the library was a central gathering place for scholars and intelligentsia from all over the city, even at this hour. Gorgo strolled through the room without calling attention to himself. He imagined that anyone who looked at him saw only a reserved, serious young Oribul of good family.

  In the back, a door opened out into a hallway, and a middle-aged man with thinning dark hair stood chatting, teacup in hand, with a well-dressed Kharvay woman. He looked around as Gorgo came up. “Good day, young Oribul. I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before. Your name would be... ?”

  “Gorgo—of Pton Oribul.”

  “Ah! A fine family. I am Tiolt Kharvay. And what brings you to our library?”

  Tiolt himself. Gorgo measured him, fascinated. He knew the man’s intellect was formidable, yet the Kharvay’s air was relaxed and friendly, that of a helpful tutor. Gorgo wondered if Tiolt had simply not been intimidating enough to rule the squabbling warriors and sorcerers of the islands. At any rate, he was not surprised Tiolt had noticed him; he knew Tiolt had a great interest in all those who used
his library, or in anyone who pursued scholarship. Gorgo had already concocted a story for this purpose. “It’s on account of my aunt, really. She’s in charge of my education. She assigned me a theme to defend just yesterday, and she told me to research it thoroughly.”

  “Your aunt would be...?”

  “Armida Pton.”

  “Armida! I know Armida of course. Quite a woman. Extremely knowledgeable in a great many fields. I’ve consulted her in the past on topics relating to the Oribuls. And so she’s your teacher? You’re quite lucky.”

  “It doesn’t always feel like it. I’ve no idea where to begin.”

  “What has she assigned you?”

  “ ‘Resolved: to prove a priest from a Greycowl Mountain monastery is, by natural ability and training, the equal of a Wyvernyr.’ As indication of this, she points out the fact that the only such priest ever taken in captivity freed herself within the year, and is today one of the leading citizens of Wyverna.” Gorgo had calculated this topic to be his best gambit; it said nothing of the golem or the city of Madness, yet should let him look at the records he wanted.

  Tiolt’s eyes had brightened. “An excellent topic for thought, indeed. And there’s more to your aunt’s proposal; it touches on the origins of our race itself. Which order of monks joined with Black Cat Kharvay in the early days, and mingled their blood and training into our people?”

  Did Tiolt actually think Gorgo so uneducated he would not know this? “The Bright Light Order—what today we call the Hollow Eye line.”

  “Yes, very good—though the Hollow Eye monastery is rather altered from the ancient order. Despite their small numbers, you will find the monks have had a strong influence on our culture. A fascinating topic you have.” Tiolt regarded him from guileless dark eyes. “The Pton enclave is more scholarly than most Oribul clans, I’ve always thought.”